The Demon Queen's Royal Consort

There was a path.

Made of clouds—dense, soft, pulsing like living flesh breathing beneath his feet.

Above it, there was no sky.

Below... fire.

Not ordinary fire, but the gaping mouth of a volcano, where breaths of sulfur rose like sighs from a sleeping deity.

Dórian walked.

Or maybe floated.

The heat bit at his skin with invisible teeth, but he saw no burns.

No blisters. No blood.

Only sweat.

Liters of it.